by Pat Amsden
But when she checked everything was in its proper place.
“So, did we miss anything?” Marcus asked, beaming as she checked to make sure all chocolate making supplies had been put away properly and the chocolate making area was as clean as clean could be.
“Looks perfect to me,” she said smiling at Marcus. A friend of Heath’s from cooking school he’d been a welcome addition to their team. He beamed at her now.
“You got plans for the night?”
“Nothing major,” she said laughing. “I thought I’d stop by the Art Gallery and make sure the exhibit is good, then I’m going to have a quiet night at home and go over the judging notes.”
“Aw Maxine, ya got to get yourself a man. You’re way too young and hot to spending Saturday night doing homework.”
“Homework,” she said appalled. “I’m just making sure I don’t fall flat on my face tomorrow.”
That was what she was doing, she thought determinedly as she parked her little red smart car in the parking lot. Usually there were more cars here. But she’d known she was stopping by after hours. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see her car was the only car there.
As she opened the door to the art gallery and let herself in she couldn’t help but think it would be nice to have someone with her. Someone like Patrick. She pictured him now. Six feet two with broad shoulders that tapered down to washboard abs and long, muscular legs, it was his eyes that really got to her. A deep, sapphire blue they seemed to see into her soul, sometimes asking questions she really didn’t want to answer.
They were friends, that was all. But what if…
She didn’t see the blow coming. She’d barely entered the Art Gallery when someone hit her from behind, as if they’d been waiting behind the door. She stumbled, putting her hands up to protect herself but whoever it was ran past her out into the night.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, she told herself as she swayed in the doorway, feeling woozy, her purse and contents spread out in front of her. Who would do such a thing? And were they alone?
“Hello,” she called out as she bent down retrieving her purse. Her voice echoed throughout with no returning sounds. Didn’t the gallery have a security guard? Someone? She felt herself on the edge of hysteria. “Hello,” she called again but no one came. She reached up feeling the back of her head and came away with something hot and sticky on her hand. Blood, she thought, her blood. She could smell the heavy, coppery smell.
Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. She pulled out her phone. 911? But she wasn’t in immediate danger. At least she didn’t think so. She called Patrick.
“I, I’ve been hit. I”
“Where are you?” His voice came over the phone, angry and abrupt.
“At the Art Gallery, Patrick I,”
“Don’t move,” he told her. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
Her lips quivered. Tears spilled from her eyes. It wasn’t as if she’d expected to be attacked. He didn’t have to be so angry. Sniffling she started to pick up the contents of her purse. A lipstick and papers were strewn across the doorway along with her wallet. Her attacker hadn’t stopped to take a second look.
And where was the security guard? She was sure they had one. Because at any minute she was going to lose it big time. Where was everyone? Surely it wasn’t too much to expect someone to be around, someone to make sure she was all right, the museum was all right?
Oh, this might not be the Royal London museum or the Louvre in Paris. They might not be guarding the Hope diamond or paintings from Van Gogh but it was still an art gallery filled with art.
Precious art, even if sometimes only in the eye of the beholder. She saw in her mind’s eye a misshapen and wobbly haunted house built with much exuberance and enthusiasm as she had watched the previous afternoon. Oh please she thought, don’t let his or his fellow artists’ houses be ruined. They’d be devastated.
For that matter what of the exhibits? She could hear the scream of police cars approaching. If she listened to Patrick she’d wait. Right where she was. Since when had something like that ever happened?
Besides what possible harm could there be in checking on their exhibits? She walked in the direction of the exhibits, feeling more than a little shaky. One quick look to make sure everything was all right.
But everything was not all right. Their display had been upturned. By someone in a hurry to escape or was it more targeted? She gave a small cry of despair, tears coming to her eyes. All that time spent designing the house, carefully putting the walls and turrets together. And the witches and warlocks, so carefully designed by Heather, had been works of art.
She turned on the lights looking around carefully. An older man came up behind her. He looked as startled to see her as she was him.
“Miss, I’m Rod Stone, security for the gallery. Are you all right?”
She shook her head, feeling a little light-headed. “Someone attacked me and the display, the display…” she gestured at it feebly while holding her head, napkin pressed in place to stop the bleeding. “I’ve called a friend, he’s on his way.”
“You’d better take a seat,” Rod said, not unkindly. “I’ll phone the police and let them…”
That proved unnecessary as a pair of policemen followed closely by Patrick came running through the door. “Are you OK?”
Patrick stopped in front of her. He led her carefully to a bench by the door, cursing softly. “You have to be more careful. I don’t want to lose you.” But the concern in his eyes took the sting out of his words as his hands probed the wound area closely.
“You don’t seem too badly hurt. The paramedics are on their way.”
“No, that wasn’t necessary.”
“Better safe than sorry,” he said gruffly. “What made you decide to come here now anyway? The gallery’s closed isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I had some keys because I’m helping with the haunted house competition. Oh Patrick! The house we built is destroyed.” She leaned into his chest, a sob escaping, as she drew strength from his presence.
He held her close for a minute. “And the others?”
“I haven’t had a chance to look yet. I was attacked entering the doors. I just…”
The security guard was right beside them. “I’d gone down to the art storage area. One of the lights on my security board started blinking indicating there might be a problem. I couldn’t see anything wrong down there, but next thing you know I hear sirens so I came back up which is when I spotted your lady friend.”
Patrick frowned. “How many keys are given out?”
“I don’t rightly know,” the guard said. “All the board members have them as well as the director. I’ve warned them before that it’s a security breach but they felt they knew best.”
“Did all the exhibitors have one?” he asked.
“Oh no. Still, this is the first time I was aware of your lady friend having one.”
“It was to make it easier for me. I wanted to make sure everything was ready for tomorrow and Brad Melchor, the director said he didn’t see any problem.”
“Normally there wouldn’t be,” Patrick said frowning. “But from the sound of it almost anyone could have had a key or copy of a key.”
The security guard nodded glumly. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Stay here a minute,” Patrick said. “I want to take a look around, talk to my partner. If the paramedics clear you I’ll give you a ride home.”
She’d have preferred to stay glued to Patrick’s side, even as she nodded obediently. On the other hand she felt so shaky she wasn’t sure what would happen if she stood up suddenly. For now she decided to wait where she was, holding a clean cloth with ice-pack, courtesy of the security guard, to her head.
Before she knew it paramedics had arrived on scene and were checking her out. One of them gently probed the wound area with expert hands.
“It happened so fast,” she said. “I don’t know what hit me. But there was bl
ood everywhere. Is blood everywhere,” she said shuddering as she looked down at her shirt and hands.
“Head wounds bleed like crazy,” one of the paramedics said. He was an older man, in his mid-forties she’d guess and had a gentle touch along with kind eyes.
“Am I going to be OK,” she said, her voice wobbly.
“Pretty sure you’ll live,” his partner said. “We can take you to ER and get you stitched up, then you’ll be back to normal in no time.”
“Is that really necessary?” she said. “I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. To, to…” a fresh round of tears threatened to spill out “Judge this,” she said, her voice rising suddenly.
“We can clean it up and steri-strip it,” the first paramedic said. “Of course if you have any problems you can always go to ER and get it checked out. You’re probably going to have a headache tomorrow. Extra strength Tylenol might be enough. Again, if the pain is stronger or you’re having dizzy spells go to ER and get it checked out.”
The younger paramedic looked with doubt at the scene before them. “That’s if they go ahead with the event-“
“But they have to,” Maxine cried. “So many people have put so much into these houses and it means so much to them. Besides it’s a fundraiser!”
“That’s still not worth risking your life for,” the other one said stiffly and then Patrick was by her side.
“So, is she OK to go?”
“As long as you make sure she gets home safely. She certainly can’t drive right now.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Patrick said. As he helped her out to his awaiting jeep she was more than thankful to have him next to her.
“You realize you’re my knight in shining armor,” she said smiling at him as he opened the jeep door and helped her up.
He sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t give me so much work rescuing you.”
She looked at him contritely. “I don’t mean to.”
He gave a sigh and grinned a rueful grin in her direction. “I don’t mean it’s your fault. Just,” he looked straight ahead concentrating on his driving. “I care about you Maxine. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
She blinked back tears. “I’ll try to be more careful. And I have been practicing. I just – I was making a last minute check of our display and the venue tonight. It was only supposed to take one minute.”
“That might really have been bad luck,” he said. “Someone went to a lot of effort to get the guard away from the exhibits for a few minutes. He couldn’t have known you’d have chosen then to check the exhibits. At least –“ he gave her a sideways glance. “You didn’t tell everyone you were going to be here tonight did you?”
She shook her head. “I think I mentioned it to Marcus when we were closing up. He told me I needed to get a life. Or words to that effect,” she said flushing as she remembered his exact words. “You’re way too young and hot to be spending Saturday night doing homework.” Close enough she thought.
“I’ll drive you home and make you something to help you sleep,” he said.
“You don’t need to stay,” she said. “Grandma Ellie is upstairs if I need anything.” If she hadn’t gone out with her karate instructor.
The look he sent her made her feel about ten shades hotter. “I don’t mind,” he said gently.
Chapter Nine
Maxine felt the top of her head gingerly. Ouch! She could feel the goose-egg with her fingers but fortunately she’d been able to hide most of the damage with her hair. She was not about to let a little thing like a bump on her head stop her from judging the Haunted House Contest at the Art Gallery although she did wish their display hadn’t been trashed.
“The carnage,” Grandma Ellie said, shaking her head sadly. “Such needless vandalism.” An artist herself, she knew most of the local Victoria artists, as well as some of the board. Keeping her away from an event like this would have been impossible.
“Patrick was there in minutes and paramedics checked me out,” she said.
“Well, at least you called Patrick this time,” her Grandma said approvingly. “I like that young man. But you should have kept him overnight.”
“Grandma!”
“I see the way he looks at you,” her Grandma Ellie said, not phased in the least. “And it’s not as if I don’t know about the birds and the bees. I have kids you know.”
“I know,” Maxine said feeling her blood pressure rise. “But he was on the job when this happened. He can’t just drop everything and spend the night here. He made sure I was fine before he left.”
“That’s something,” her Grandma said with a small smile. Dressed in a bright red tunic with glasses framed in the same bright red and black leggings her Grandma managed to maintain a sense of style as she approached her eighties. Maxine didn’t know what she’d do without her. Thankfully it wasn’t something she was likely to have to worry about for a long, long time to come. Her grandma was in excellent health.
As they pulled into the Art Gallery parking lot it became immediately evident the parking lot wasn’t deserted today. In fact if she hadn’t had a special pass to park in the employee parking she’d have never managed to find a spot close to the door.
She entered in time to see Rod, the security guard from the previous evening, getting ready to make his rounds.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help last night,” she said heading straight towards him and hugging him.
He gave her a big smile. “It was nothing Miss. I wish I’d been there when you were attacked. I’d have put a stop to it.”
She smiled at him. “I survived. And I’m sure nothing like that will happen again.” She surveyed the crowds milling throughout the gallery. Volunteers were at the entrance collecting admission and directing the visitors. Voting had been closed but people were still circling around looking over all the houses.
Some were seeing them for the first time, some were checking out the competition and some were intent on mischief she thought, catching a glimpse of Maggie Thompson’s boy Blake. At six he had a touch of the devil in him and she couldn’t help thinking he was a little too close to the exhibits for her comfort.
Grandma Ellie spotted him at the same time. “You go get set up at the judge’s table. I think I’ll stop and talk to young Mr. Blake for a moment.”
Maxine breathed a sigh of relief.
As she approached the judge’s table local News Anchor, Angie Kelly approached her, a smile plastered on her face. “Any chance we could have a short interview?”
“I’ll be happy to give you one after,” she replied, “but I need to get ready right now.”
Angie didn’t argue the point but she didn’t seem too pleased by it either Maxine thought sighing. Keeping the press on her side and giving them news bites when asked helped keep her visible and her business in the black so she liked to cooperate with them whenever possible. She also wanted to make sure she didn’t fall flat on her face.
Chef Russ Bertrand from the boutique hotel, ‘Chances’ on the waterfront smiled at her as she approached. “Bad news about your display. Are you ready for today?”
In his early forties she found him easy to work with and enjoyed his sense of humor. She smiled at him now.
“You know what they say. If you can’t stand the heat get out of the kitchen. I’m a tough cookie.”
He smiled ruefully. “That doesn’t mean you should have to fear for your personal safety. Have the police got any leads?”
She shook her head. “I think it was a random attack. I just happened to be coming in when whoever it was wanted to leave.”
“Seemed pretty targeted to me,” he said grimly. “Zak’s company entry was sprayed with a sign saying stay off our land and your display was destroyed.”
She felt dizzy suddenly. Why hadn’t Patrick told her about Zak’s entry? Was it connected to the visit she’d made to Jake Jacob’s protest site? And how far was he willing to go to protect native lands? Far enough to kill? She felt bile rise up in h
er throat.
Izzy Markaz, director of the children’s art program at the Art Gallery, smiled at her. “Have you seen the entrants for our children’s section?”
“I watched some of them working on their creations,” Maxine said, a feeling of joy at the memory of it, bubbling up in her.
“Then you’ll agree they’re all artists.”
“Oh, yes of course,” Maxine said although she couldn’t help wondering how she was supposed to judge then.
“So we like to give all the participants ribbons, since we believe they’re all artists. We just give a bigger one to the Haunted House which captures the judge’s imagination on the day of the competition.” Izzy smiled brightly. A striking woman of Jamaican descent she had a unique world view. The competition and her way of handling it, a perfect example.
Henri Beauchamp, the owner and chef of a French restaurant that served exquisite food greeted her with a small, precise smile. She wasn’t sure what had made him participate in this event since it was so far out of his comfort zone it might as well have been on another planet.
Henri was a world class chef who judged food to the strictest standards. These standards included taste, preparation and plating. They did not allow for a multitude of different styles and houses which could range from a small cottage stuck on the edge of a bayou as one entry consisted of, to a Gingerbread mansion that could have appeared on the cover of American Design, but for the broken windows, cobwebs, witches and warlocks that made it a Halloween special. She gave him a small smile.
“Mon Dieu,” he said. “What have we involved ourselves in? This, this is a travesty of cooking.” He shook his head. “I should not have allowed myself to be persuaded…Still we must make the best of it.”
The Art Gallery Director was speaking into the microphone, asking for their attention. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to our Halloween Haunted Houses competition. As you all know we have two divisions. One for children and one for businesses, sponsored by many of our local business owners. The winners get bragging rights as well as prizes.