by Angie Fox
Ellis flipped to another picture. Beau looked over his shoulder. “Ah, yes. I call that one Magic in the Moonlight.”
It looked like a black and yellow blob. Was the black supposed to indicate phases of the moon, or had he run out of the neon yellow paint? “What is this fringe?” I asked. It hung from some of the yellow blobs.
“Horsetail to symbolize the moon’s ties to nature,” Beau said as if it were obvious.
Ellis quivered with choked-off laughter, and I silently willed him to keep it under control. “This is…so different from any art I’ve seen before,” I said, handing the phone back.
Beau beamed. “I know! It’s a totally unique artistic avenue, and I have Verity to thank for it.”
Not me. Not ever. “I don’t remember telling you about horsetails and moonlight,” I said to him, and to Zoey. I’d deny ever seeing the moon if it meant I had to take credit for this.
He dragged his log over and sat directly across from me. “I understand now why you didn’t want to be with me.”
“Let’s not do this,” I managed, my eyes on Zoey, who stood behind him, seething. I didn’t blame her.
Ellis wasn’t laughing anymore, either.
“You wanted everything out in the open,” Beau reminded me.
“Don’t put this on me,” I warned. “I ended things. Permanently. Because of what happened right before the wedding.” I glanced up at Zoey. “You owe your girlfriend the truth. After that, let’s let the past stay in the past.”
“Don’t you see?” Beau prodded. “It all comes back around!”
Oh, it was coming around, all right.
“I wasn’t being my true self,” he continued. “It frustrated me, and I acted out. I ruined everything.”
“Beau—” I began. He was about to ruin everything again. At least for him and Zoey.
“I couldn’t handle being real,” he plowed forward, “I couldn’t face getting in touch with my deepest emotions.” Beau touched a hand to his chest, still looking straight at me. “After what happened on the train and seeing you living your own life so genuinely, with no apologies for what you believe in—it lit a fire inside me, Verity. It made me realize that life is short, and if I’m going to live a life free of regrets, then I need to follow in your footsteps.”
“Let me get you moving,” Ellis said, shoving Beau’s log out from under him with one foot.
Beau stumbled and stood, shooting Ellis a dirty look.
“You may want to watch out for Mom while you’re at it,” Ellis continued. “She’s not the artsy type.”
“Unbelievable,” Beau said, his attention returning to Zoey. “Ellis thinks he’s the only one in the family who should get to do what he wants, who can date who he wants. And Verity used to be my biggest supporter.”
“Like Zoey is now,” I said, making a giant leap, but I didn’t care. My chance for a new friend might be shot, but I’d be darned if I’d sit by and watch him mess up with the only good girl that had come into his life in a long time. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell your mom this was my idea.”
After her visit today, I didn’t think I could take that kind of heat.
Ellis ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tell I only knew from our occasional poker nights. Frankie had insisted I learn how to play. “So, Beau, is there much of a market for this kind of art?”
“West Coast collectors are getting into Southern eclectic right now,” Zoey said, her words stiff. “It’s going to be the new thing.”
“But it’s not a thing yet?” Ellis pressed. Here was the cop coming out. He was trained to peel back the layers of a story until he found the reality hiding at the bottom of it.
“Not yet,” Beau said, his anger cooling. “I’m on the cutting edge. Check this one out.” He handed the phone back. “I think it’s my best sculpture so far.”
The centerpiece was shaped like a fat snake with three heads, and each head was something different: a hubcap, what looked like a bent wine barrel ring, and the detached blade of a saw. Each one was painted a different color—red, aqua, and brown. I think there might have been shards of glass involved, that or glitter. And the polka dots were…wait, had those been glued on? It looked like one was about to fall off.
“Wow,” was all I could say at first. “Very memorable. Do you have any buyers yet? Or an agent?” It was possible. Just because his sculptures weren’t my taste didn’t mean other people wouldn’t like them. I leaned more toward classic design rather than hubcaps and glitter. “What are you doing to sell your work?”
“I’m waiting for the art dealers to catch up with me,” Beau said as if that were the goal of every artist. “They don’t understand what I’m doing yet, but that’s because it’s so unique. You’re an artist. You get it,” he said as if my past as a graphic artist would prepare me for that sort of thing.
Newsflash: it hadn’t. I’d worked for businesses who’d needed my logos and designs to sell their own products. It wasn’t about wild self-expression. It was about making my clients look good.
“Besides,” Zoey grabbed another beer and took up Beau’s cause, “art critics and agents don’t matter.”
“It seems like they might if an artist doesn’t want to starve,” Ellis said.
Beau huffed like Ellis had no idea. “When the world is ready for my work, it’ll sell so fast I won’t be able to keep it in stock.” He drained the rest of his beer. “Of course, maybe I’ll have my own gallery by then.”
“You totally will,” Zoey said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I believe in you, baby.” She glared down at me. “Even if Verity doesn’t.”
Lovely.
It was good that he had her support, at least. “Well, this is great,” I said. “You can be a lawyer and an artist. Keep working at the firm, use the barn on the weekends, and eventually, the right buyer will come along who can properly appreciate your work.”
Beau frowned. “It’s not like it’s going to take years to establish myself as an artist, Verity. People make it big every day.”
As the only one of us who’d worked as a professional artist in the group, I had to disagree. “I’m just saying, building a client base takes time. It’s not a bad idea to keep your day job until your art covers the bills.”
Beau looked as if I’d slapped him. “Are you saying you think I can’t do it?”
“Not at all.” I stood, considered placing a comforting hand on his arm, and thought better of it. “I’m just urging a little bit of caution.”
“Do you live a life of caution?” he demanded. “No!” he answered before I could respond. “So don’t expect me to either. You’re being a hypocrite, Verity.”
“And you’re being an ass,” I told him.
He walked away, toward the fire. I thought that was the end of it until he spun to face me. “You know what? I’m going to prove you wrong.” He pointed his beer from me to Ellis. “Both of you.”
“Please don’t do anything rash,” I cautioned.
He pointed his bottle at me. “I’m quitting the firm tomorrow. I’m going to take up art full-time.”
“Hold up, little brother,” Ellis cautioned.
But Beau was on a roll. “I’m going to spend all day in the barn working on my creations, contemplating the message and meaning each piece yearns to convey. I’ll raid dumps and secondhand stores and give new life to other people’s thrown-away dreams. I’m a dream maker. This is my true path.”
“It is.” Zoey beamed. “I’m honored to be a part of it.”
I was horrified just to be on the periphery of it.
My only hope was that maybe he’d leave me out of it. Maybe he’d take full credit. Otherwise, my life was over. Virginia was going to kill me.
Chapter 10
“I’m as good as dead,” I said to Ellis half an hour later as we drove toward the Adair estate.
“No,” Ellis said, turning onto the long road that led to the Adair mansion. “My mother can’t possibly blame you for Beau l
osing his mind.”
I was pretty sure there was no limit to the things that Virginia Wydell could blame me for.
“Being dead’s not that bad,” Frankie mused. “At least when you’re not tied down to a bunch of dirt under some dame’s rosebush.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I said. And then, trying for a bit of levity, I added, “Sounds like you had fun at Maisie’s.”
He chuffed. “The World War One veterans have a shooting range going in the woods out back. Crack shots, all of ’em, but I held my own. It was a hoot. You’d have had a lot more fun watching blindfolded trick shots than you did talking art with your ex.”
“What’s he saying?” Ellis asked, glancing at the empty backseat like he could see Frankie gushing.
“He thinks I’d have more fun if I actually were dead.”
“You might,” Frankie insisted.
Ellis laughed. “I heard the dead have it easy.”
We both knew better.
Just then Ellis crested a hill near the old pecan orchard. He slowed as we passed, no doubt thinking about his case.
Seeing the rows of pecan trees also reminded me of the strange pie I’d received on my porch this morning. “Ellis,” I began, telling him the story as the car bounced down the familiar weedy path toward the old mansion.
He shot me the side-eye. “That is the strangest thing I’ve heard since five minutes ago,” he said. Then, growing serious, he added, “You’d think somebody would take credit for a home-baked dessert. Let me know if anything else weird happens.”
“I will,” I promised.
Although for me, weird was a daily occurrence.
Ellis slowed as we neared the overgrown estate. It appeared as formidable as it had the night before, only this time we had permission to be there.
“You have the keys?” Ellis asked.
“Of course,” I said, fishing in my pocket for the key ring I’d picked up at the records office this afternoon.
I opened the gate and slid back into the car as Ellis began the long slow drive up the main driveway.
Wind moaned through the trees. It was as dark now as it had been yesterday, but this time, inexplicably, it felt as if we were being watched. The tall grass bent and swayed as another gust, a stronger one, hit us from the side and whipped toward the house.
The wind felt almost like something was moving within it, taunting us.
“Stop here,” Frankie said, just when we passed a particularly gnarled old elm.
I repeated his request, and Ellis parked in the middle of the road halfway to the house. “What’s going on?” he asked, keeping the engine running.
“I’m not sure,” I said, watching the ghost step out of the car. “Maybe we’re making a discreet entrance.”
But as I stepped out into the night, I got the distinct feeling someone had spotted me.
The wind fell quiet, and the air around us stilled.
The gangster glided toward the front of the car.
“I’m here as a friend,” I said to no one in particular, peering into the shadows. Ellis joined me, the car door snicking closed behind him.
“What do you see?” Ellis asked.
“Nothing yet.” I didn’t have Frankie’s power. When I turned my attention from the shadows by the road, I saw Frankie frozen in front of the car, the headlights shining straight through him.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
Ellis reached behind his belt for his gun, but that wouldn’t help us. Not against the dead.
Frankie stood in the middle of the path, eyes wide, his lower jaw drawn tight.
“Are you okay?” I joined him. “Do I even want your power tonight?”
Without it, I couldn’t see any ghostly threats. Then again, when I wasn’t tuned in, they couldn’t hurt me, either.
“Take it,” he said, zapping me.
“Wait.” I held up a hand at the same time.
But it was too late.
The power sizzled over me, racing down my body. It felt like diving headfirst into a vat of pure energy. Every nerve in my body crackled as I tried to adapt.
“Verity!” Ellis caught me, steadying me. He held me close. I must have looked awful.
I pulled away. “I need to be able to move fast.”
“Right.” He let me go.
As hard as it was to be hit with Frankie’s ghostly juice with no warning, I was more afraid of what I’d see next.
“I—” My breath stopped in my throat, choked off out of fascination, awe, and—it had to be said—a little horror.
We’d stopped just short of, well, nothing I’d ever seen before, this side of the veil or on the other.
“These ghosts win,” Frankie said, serious as a funeral. “They win at life and death.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, glad at least I wasn’t in mortal danger.
The gangster watched, fascinated. “I’ve never seen so many people running around in their underthings in my life, and I’ve been to Newport Beach in the summer.”
“Not underthings,” I said. “Togas.”
Frankie furrowed his brow.
“Remind me to play the movie Animal House for you sometime.”
He shuddered. “I don’t do talking pictures. But I think I could do this,” he added, warming to the scene unfolding in front of us.
The mansion was lit up as it had been the night before. The entire front lawn had been transformed into a bizarre kind of obstacle course, with false trees built from papier mâché dangling real fruit from their branches, enormous shells full of water—or alcohol, it was hard to tell—rising out of frothy clouds of netting, and men chasing women around with heart-tipped arrows in their hands, laughing their heads off while the women giggled and dodged.
The men wore togas long enough to brush the ground, while the women were clothed in what looked like belted slips, with lace-up sandals and glittering laurels around their foreheads.
“Better?” Ellis asked, seeing my expression.
“Much.” We had a lot of work to do. I couldn’t afford to get distracted. Still, I slipped an arm through Ellis’s. “I think we’re about to step into Drunk Olympus.”
Chapter 11
I spotted Marcus standing next to Graham on the front steps of the mansion. Drinks in hand, heads together, they reminded me of a pair of fraternity buddies. Graham laughed heartily at something Marcus said, and the taller man nudged his host before adding a comment that sent them into a new round of guffaws.
Jeannie sauntered up to the men, dolled up in a much fancier version of the tiny tunic that most of the women wore. A cloak of peacock feathers draped from her shoulders down to the ground, and more feathers—these glinting with diamonds—formed a halo around her head. Not to be outdone, Marjorie strode arm in arm with her host and friend, wearing a glittering gown that displayed her entire back and a long trail of rhinestones down her spine. I could tell by the knowing look the women exchanged that they were up to something.
“Ready?” Graham prodded, like a kid at Christmas.
“Always,” Jeannie purred.
The men stood next to a large statue draped in white cloth. And when Graham nodded at his friend and his wife, the women took their places on either side of it, like Price is Right models.
“Something’s going down,” Frankie said as Graham raised a hand.
The crowd murmured. Several people began to clap. The women whipped the cloth away to reveal an enormous donut-shaped metal cylinder on a tall stand.
“What the what?” I began.
It glowed, kicking off tiny sparks.
More cheers erupted.
Jeannie gave her beaming husband a kiss on the cheek. Marjorie did the same, and as Marcus leaned to whisper in her ear, I watched her face fall. She tried to paste on a new smile, but it was raw and forced. Marcus smirked, and I wondered what he’d said to his wife.
Graham Adair strode behind the strange, sparking contraption and withdrew a long wand from
the base.
He raised the wand into the air and—crack!
The sparks became a sizzling bolt of lightning connecting his hand to the glowing ball. The watchers shouted. I winced before recognizing that our host wasn’t only unharmed, he was cackling with a showman’s glee.
“Bow to me, the king of the gods, Zeus the Thunderer!” he cried.
The crowd roared and clapped.
I couldn’t help it. I clapped too. It was amazing. Spectacular. I was so glad to be here. I had to rein it in. I was investigating. But, oh, my goodness. I was used to crumbling haunted houses with cobwebs and angry ghosts. Not…this.
Marcus kissed his wife on the cheek and left to go greet a trio of socialites. The band started up. Marjorie jumped down into the crowd and got the dancing started, and I looked at Frankie. “Yay for the 1920s,” I said.
“Babe,” he said, shaking his head, “you have no idea.”
If last night had been a rollicking party, tonight was a complete and utter bash. The pianist had been replaced by a live—well, a dead—jazz band. The entire front lawn doubled as a dance floor. A few ambitious partygoers tried to play along on lyres and pan pipes. More guests plucked fruit off the trees as fast as the unobtrusive staff could hang it, and the shells had to be continuously refreshed with new infusions of…whatever people were drinking.
Frankie accepted a shell from a passing waiter, who was dressed in black tie with a laurel wreath on his head. The gangster dipped a finger in his drink and licked it. “Huh, fruity. Strong, too.” He grinned. “These people know how to party.”
“Stick close,” I told him. We had a killer on the loose, a psychopath who could be all smiles one minute and deadly the next.
Besides, the inspector would be expecting insight and answers from us. For that, we needed to stay sharp.
And speak of the devil…
De Clercq strode from amid the crowd, his hands clasped behind his back, observing Mr. Adair’s display with the expression of a man who had seen it all.
He frowned when he saw us. “Mr. Winkelmann, you’re late.”