“Nice to see you too, Jon.” Alex shook his hand. There was a noticeable change in their attitudes since the morning in Meg’s kitchen. Alex gestured to the back room to show Jon the latest paintings.
“Great little art studio.” Jon looked around as he walked to the back room. Then he stopped as he entered the kitchen/bedroom cluttered with paintings leaning against the wall in every nook and cranny. The paintings of the ocean he knew so well were lined up in every conceivable manner on the floor, on the table, and one even lay on the bed. “But, you’re running out of room.”
“Your mom and I are loading these up early tomorrow and heading for Corpus. So, they won’t be here much longer.”
“He has a one-artist-show at the gallery and my money says they’ll all sell.” Meg smiled with pride.
Jon walked to the one that lay on the bed. It was his mother’s bungalow from a view in the garden. Looking down the side of the dilapidated house with one shutter askew, the view was a rising sea with dark thunderclouds in the background. “How much? Can I buy this one before it goes to market?”
“It’s yours.” Alex did not name a price.
“No, I want to buy it. I’m not looking for a handout. But, I’d like to hang it in my office.”
“I’m sure you don’t need a handout. But it needs a frame. None of these are framed until the buyer tells me what they want. I think it’s good to give them the opportunity to frame them with their decor. Some artists frame them to go with the painting, and that is a good idea too, but I want the buyer to have a say in the framing. Tom Matthews has a framer that he likes to use and he does wonderful work.”
“You have it framed as you think it needs to be, and I’ll come by the studio tomorrow in Corpus and pay you. Just don’t let it get away.” Then Jon turned to face Meg.
“Mom, any more trouble with notes from people trying to blackmail you? I talked to the detectives in Corpus Christi yesterday and they seem to have your case on the back burner. I guess if there isn’t a double homicide, they aren’t interested.”
“I haven’t heard any more. Maybe he got bored and went away. However, I couldn’t find your grandmother’s sugar bowl this morning. I don’t know, maybe I just misplaced it. I don’t think anyone has been in the house. But, you didn’t come all the way out here just to ask me that. What’s up?”
“Keep looking, it’s probably somewhere in the house. But, there is one little thing. Victoria has changed her mind again about the wedding. She just wants a civil ceremony at the Courthouse. I know a judge that will perform the ceremony, and I hope you will still come. It may be in a couple of days.”
Meg’s mind began to whirl. What girl didn’t want a big wedding? Especially when she could design all the dresses herself and money was no object? “What changed her mind? I mean, I thought she and her family wanted to have a grand event at the country club.”
“Well, she has decided that the money we were going to spend could be better spent if given to charity. She’s like that. I gave her the pre-nup and she didn’t even flinch.”
“She knows of course that most of our money goes to charity? I mean... maybe I’m over-thinking this, but it seems odd to me.”
Jon’s face began to darken and then abruptly stopped. He leaned down and kissed his mother on the forehead. “You’re always seeing ghosts in the woodwork. She is just frugal, that’s all, and it’s something you should identify with. I’ll let you know when we get the details worked out.”
“Alex, don’t let that painting get away tomorrow. Mark it sold and hang it on the wall, but it’s mine.” Then he turned and left.
“Do you think that’s strange?” Meg said to Alex after Jon left. “I mean she keeps changing her mind about the wedding and moving it up.”
“I think it would be better if I didn’t get involved.”
“I’m going to have someone check up on that young lady. Something about her bothers me.”
Chapter 28
He walked down the street with his hat down low over his eyes, watching the people come and go through the art festival. Mike Fitzgerald knew the gallery was a few blocks down, but he wanted to get a feel about the people at the gathering. Mostly families, mothers with strollers, kids running this way and that hyped up on sugar, some serious art buyers—and then the vendors. The heat was oppressive and almost everyone was drinking water from a plastic bottle even though they were sweating it out faster than they could take it in. His shirt clung to him like a warm plastic wrapper to sticky candy. He had lived in this climate all his life and he understood humidity, but something was different. The atmosphere felt as unsettled as he did.
He saw the man through the window, sitting at the bar with a beer in his hand. He said he would be at the little bar on Water Street. It was ten o’clock in the morning and most people hadn’t started drinking yet. But Robert Chung could always use a cold one.
****
Robert Chung—Bob to his buddies if he had any—downed another beer at the local watering hole. Sandhill Island. Did he really want to go back to that hell hole again for a few measly dollars? The guy had to come up with more if he wanted the job done this time. He killed the fisherman and now he was supposed to go after the fisherman’s lover? After all, she was a woman, and not a young one at that. It wasn’t like she would be much of a challenge, but he had a few scruples. He didn’t like killing women or children. But, he was broke and five thousand dollars was more than he had in his bank account now.
He swirled the golden liquid in the bottom of the glass and then drained it. He could get more—at least double that. Ten thousand for a life seemed like a small amount when you thought about it. But, the guy said all he had was five. Maybe he could work out a double cross and blackmail the woman. She was the one with the money, right? The Stanfords always had money—hell they owned the whole damned island, so ten thousand was nothing to them. He would demand the five thousand up front from the guy, and another five when it was done. Then he could kidnap the woman instead of killing her. The son would pay the money he asked for. He had millions, not thousands. That would be enough for him to live on the rest of his life and he wouldn’t have to worry anymore. He’d just take off for some little South American country and hide out. How hard could it be?
“Gimme another, Mack,” he told the bartender.
And the bartender did as he was told. Once Bob got started, he seldom quit until someone carried him out. Just another day for Bob Chung. But, this time he would stay sober until the job was done. He had to.
****
Fitzgerald walked into the artificially cool and dark pub and casually walked past the guy at the bar, catching his eye. He moved to the table in the corner away from the windows and sat facing the man. Fitzgerald watched as he drained his glass then slowly got up and walked to the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later bypassing the bar and sauntering to the table.
Eventually, after changing the channel on the TV to something more interesting, the bartender walked over and stood next to the table. “You guys buying this morning, or just takin’ up room?” he asked.
“I’ll take another,” said Chung.
“Just water.” Fitzgerald hoped this guy wasn’t going to be trouble and could keep it together long enough to get the job done. He would get the negotiations out of the way soon, before he ended up with a huge bar tab.
“Five thousand was the agreed upon price,” Fitzgerald said after the bartender left to refill Chung’s ever-thirsty habit.
“Well, that’s changed a little.” Chung looked over Fitzgerald’s shoulder at the TV. There was a map of the Gulf with a swirl of storms almost to Cuba. “It’s five thousand now, and another five when the job is done.”
“That’s not what we agreed. Five thousand is all I can scrape together. It’s five or nuthin’.”
“Well, it’s nuthin’ then.” Chung started to rise.
“Just hold on a second. We had a deal.”
“Well, like I said, th
e deal has changed. Ten thousand...” he broke off as the beer arrived.
“You guys want to run a tab?” asked the bartender.
“Sure.” Chung took a drink.
“No, I’ve got it.” Fitzgerald reached for his wallet and threw the money on the table. “We won’t be here that long.”
The bartender grumbled something under his breath as he shambled away.
“You know, I’ve been thinking, ten thousand isn’t that much for a life, any life, especially one as rich as hers.”
“I don’t have it,” Fitzgerald responded.
“So talk to that little piece of tail you run around with. She looks like she has money. Or does she not know about this?”
“Leave her out of it. This is between you and me.”
“Well, I’d love to leave her out of it, but the deal has changed and if you want it done, you have to come up with the extra money.”
Fitzgerald looked at the man across the table. His gray hair pulled back in a ponytail in need of washing and a three day old beard, he looked as rough as the job he said he could do. Maybe it was worth the extra money to have Meg out of the way and leaving only Jon to deal with when the time came. Then again, if the woman was dead and the extra money not paid, what was he going to do about it? Call the police? “All right, five up front and an additional five when the job is done. I know that she and the artist are here at the festival today at a gallery on Chaparral. His name is Alex Wallace and he is having a show at the gallery. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“I think I can handle it.” Chung took another swig.
Fitzgerald dug into his pocket and came up with a wad of cash, “Five thousand dollars, it’s all there if you want to count it.”
“I believe you. You wouldn’t want to cheat me. That would be a bad mistake.” He put the roll into his jacket pocket, finished the beer, and walked out the door toward Chaparral Street.
Chapter 29
Tom Mathews opened the door to the gallery and walked out. He could see Meg and Alex pulling up in the van.
“Did you bring me something wonderful?” He smiled, opening the door to the van for Meg.
“I hope so,” Alex replied.
“Of course he did.” Meg smiled and climbed out of the van, and then slid open the side door. The paintings lay stacked in the back, wrapped in sheets and assorted blankets to protect the precious cargo.
The early morning crowd was thickening like the humidity in the air as they strolled down the street. Local vendors were already set up with their wares and Meg wandered across the street while the men unloaded the van. Her eye was on a pottery stand that featured raku finishes—her favorite because they often came out of the kiln with blue and green iridescent colors like her beloved sea.
She picked up the lovely bowl, turning it over to see the artist’s signature on the bottom, when the long black limo caught her eye. Jon was at the gallery to pick up his painting.
Placing the bowl back on the shelf, she raced across the street, almost running into a man with a long gray ponytail. He already smelled of stale beer, even though it was early in the morning.
“Excuse me.” The man grabbed Meg’s arms to steady her and smiled a wicked smile with stained yellow teeth.
“Of course.” He let her go and she continued across the street. Jon stepped through the car door held open by the handsome chauffeur.
Greg, always smiling, tipped his hat to Meg as she hugged her son. “Mom,” Jon said as he hugged her back. “Did Alex bring my painting?”
“Of course, it’s inside. Go on in. I’ll be there in a minute. Greg, how are you and the family?” She always asked the same question of the man who drove her family wherever they needed to go, and he always answered the same.
“Doing well, Ms. Stanford, and how are you?”
“Fine.” She walked closer to the driver. “Greg, did you get something done about that background check on Victoria?” She made sure Jon was inside the gallery door before speaking.
“He’s working on it Ms. Stanford. He said he should have the report finalized later today.”
“Mom, you coming?” Jon called from the door.
Meg nodded at her son then looked back at the chauffer. “Call me,” was all she said.
“Consider it done.” Greg smiled at Meg as she walked in the gallery knowing that she left the job in capable hands.
Inside the gallery, the sound of laughter echoed across the wooden floor as Tom, Alex, and Jon unwrapped the paintings, leaning them against the walls and furniture. Some of the art work held each other up until they found just the right place for each one. There were at least two dozen pieces of original art showing the sea in its many faces, all painted with Meg’s bounty from her garden. Organic Art, he called it. The colors seemed to come alive as you stared into the painting, and Meg always found something new in each piece that she hadn’t seen before. There were touches of foam as it rolled out from under a wave, a tiny bug that sat on the same pier as the pelican, or the sun glistening off the water from a different angle than she noticed before. But, the raw passion in every painting reflected the man’s love of the sea—a love she shared.
“I really like this frame. Mom, what do you think—for my office?”
The modern styled cherry frame pulled the reds from the painting and enhanced them. The frame looked like it was made for the painting—as it was. Alex had commissioned it with the framer before they got there.
“Lovely,” Meg replied. “Are you hanging it behind your desk?”
“No, I want it on the other side of the room where I can see it. It’s for me, not the general public. Besides, Victoria brought me a new one for behind the desk—an art deco kind of thing that matches the colors of the rug. This is perfect. Alex, wrap it up and tell me what I owe you.”
As the men wrapped the painting, Meg stood looking out the door where Greg was on his cell phone leaning against the car waiting on Jon. She was sure he was working on the project she asked him to do.
Then she saw the man with the gray ponytail standing across the street staring at the gallery and not moving. Was she crazy or did he appear to be waiting on her? As she watched, he moved down the street toward the market, and Jon left with his new painting. She must be losing her mind. The man with the ponytail had no interest in her.
Alex and Tom hung the paintings on the walls under the lights and placed several on easels in the middle of the room. Then they climbed the ladder to position the track lights at just the right angle to bring out the best parts of the paintings.
The bell on the shop door rang almost constantly with tourists looking for art as the day warmed up. Some were only there for the air conditioning, but others had been waiting on these paintings for some time. Tom had advertised the one-man art show on his website and with posters around town. Alex was in his heyday. He loved the attention, even though he professed that he didn’t. But, who could not be flattered by so many fans at one time?
“I think I’ll take a walk around and see what’s out there,” Meg said after a while. She continued to look across the street at the pottery and was sure there was more where that came from. So many wonderful artists in one place.
“Have you got your cell?” Alex asked around a crowd of onlookers.
“In my purse, yes.” Meg slipped from the gallery into the oppressive heat of noon.
The sun on her shoulders, she wandered down Chaparral Street toward the market. The crowds grew denser the further into the market she went. Soon she knew how a sardine felt as it was shoved into a can, shoulder to shoulder with people all looking for the perfect craft, or maybe the perfect restaurant and bar.
A small space in the crowd opened up and she turned to look into the shadowy alley beside the bar, when her legs were brushed by something hard. She almost fell into a baby stroller with a soundly sleeping toddler, pink from the heat with a bottle sliding out of its still sucking lips. “Sorry,” she mumbled, thinking the mother should watc
h where she pushed her little bundle of joy. The crowd moved on without her.
Suddenly, she was jerked sideways with her arm behind her back and dragged violently down the alleyway. There was a rough hand over her mouth and she smelled the same stale beer breath from earlier.
“No!” she tried to scream, her breath shoved back down her throat. Twisting and kicking, she attempted to get away from arms that were much stronger than hers. Then she sank her teeth into the grimy hand that covered her mouth and held on tightly. This time it was the man with the dirty ponytail that yelled.
“You bitch!” he screamed and slapped her with his other hand, knocking her away and into the brick wall.
Bright spots clouded her vision as her head hit the wall and she swayed, her head swimming. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to not pass out, as she slid down the rough wall on rubbery legs. Landing on top of a loose brick, she gouged her hand on broken glass. She winced as she pulled the brick out from under her hip. Though foggy, she still had the presence of mind to think of a weapon to help even the odds.
The man with the bloody hand lunged at her as she got to her feet. “Help!” she screamed and swung the brick at his head. Blood spurted as he stumbled forward into the brick, making contact.
“Help!” she screamed again, running for the entrance of the alley and the safety of the crowds. She rounded the corner going back the way she came. Elbowing her way through the crowd that probably thought she was crazy, she screamed over and over, “help! I’m being attacked!” She didn’t stop until she was again in front of the gallery, and jerked open the door with her still bleeding hand.
“Meg!” Alex shouted over the crowd and ran to her side. Her face was bruised and her vision blurred in the one eye as it swelled. Her hip ached where she fell on the brick that probably saved her life, but she had never felt as safe as she did at that moment, in Alex’s arms. She knew he would never leave her. Holding Alex felt like home with all its safety, love, and hope for the future. She was certain about Alex and his feelings for her, and now she was certain of her feelings for him.
Secrets of Sandhill Island Page 14