“No, you were hoping for one,” a feminine voice answers.
The man chuckles as Ivy whirls away from a steaming Lincoln. I don’t know how many items she still needs, but her bag looks like it’s about to burst. She races toward one of the last three items. Only Chase, Lincoln, and Ivy are left scouring the floor. The others are all off to their mini galleries to begin arranging their loot. The camera returns to the center of the room, where my sister’s unrolling a scroll. When her face lights up with a smile, and her feet carry her away to her own white box, a giddy breath puffs out of my mouth.
“Someone’s excited,” Gill says.
I think she’s talking about Ivy, but she’s watching our linked hands. I’m crushing her fingers. I let go.
“I don’t mind,” she says.
But I do, because there are other people around, and they’re gawking and whispering things. I stand up and stretch. My body feels stiff. Then I pace the threadbare rug because they’ve gone to commercial break.
“Ladies,” Sergeant Driscoll says. “Yard time.”
Everyone grumbles as they stop whatever games they were playing and file out through the secure door that Giraffe-neck is holding open.
“But it’s raining,” Gill says.
“You won’t melt, Firehead,” Driscoll tells her. “Only sweet girls melt, which ain’t your case.”
Gill glares at him.
Giraffe-neck yells, “Hey, Redd, I’m not a door stop. Get your ass over here.”
“No yard time for her. Commander’s orders,” Driscoll informs her.
Gill cocks an orange brow. Before she can ask why, Driscoll shoves her into the hallway.
Giraffe-neck lingers in the doorjamb. “Did you blow him?”
“Huh?”
“Kim told me the warden closed the door the other day. He usually never conducts a meeting without a guard present. Unless he’s receiving special—”
“I didn’t touch him,” I tell her.
She eyes me a long time. “He’s into that shit. Just so you know.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“You still owe me.”
“I know.”
She lets the door swish shut behind her, leaving me with repugnant images of the warden. I think of his daughter, and how angelic she looked in that picture. If she found out about her father, it would break her heart.
The Masterpiecers’ theme song erupts in the quiet room. The camera broadcasting the show lifts, as though attached to a drone—which it probably is—and films the six contestants milling around their mini-galleries from above. It looks like the Pac-Man-inspired video game I designed my first week of junior high. I’d helped Ivy out with hers—perhaps more than helped—and gotten in trouble for it: a visit to the principal’s office and a low mark on my project.
Helping Ivy seems to bring me nothing but trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ivy
Kevin reminds me of a fairytale ogre, the sort who eats children for breakfast. Threatening and huge. We haven’t talked yet. Not one word, not even hello. We avoided each other all afternoon. At some point, I even faked a headache to burrow in Brook’s bedroom, which earned me a strange look from Chase. I don’t know what he imagines. Even before what he told me about Brook and his ex, I wasn’t interested in his brother. The only reason I wanted to go in the bedroom was to check my email. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that.
When I’d stepped inside the bedroom, two things struck me. First that Brook or someone else had touched my clothes because I’d left them folded on the seat of the large armchair in the corner and they weren’t folded anymore, and second, that he’d removed the tablet. I was too preoccupied with wondering if he suspected I’d used it, to worry much about him manipulating my clothes.
I feel something cold touch my lips, and realize it’s the microphone. Dominic’s holding it close to my mouth, waiting. “Ivy? Your collection?”
“The roaring twenties,” I say.
He nods to egg me on.
“But it didn’t start that way. When I found the pearl necklace and the top hat with the bunny, I thought about doing a collection around costumes. But then I realized I had more than just stage props…I had an era. The gun, the smoking pipe print—”
“For those of you who don’t know, Magritte is a surrealistic painter, and surrealism started in the 1920s. This particular work—the original one—was painted in 1929,” Dominic says. “So, Ivy, what would you name your collection?”
“A Time.”
“Can’t get more straight to the point,” Dominic says. “Nicely done.”
I inhale the praise. I’m lucky, really lucky, because my choice of the print was based on the popularity of pipes in the twenties. I had no clue when the surrealistic period started. Dominic has given me way more credit than I deserve.
“So, Chase, tell us about your collection,” Dominic says.
“I built it around the Dutch painter, Rembrandt.” He proceeds to explain how all the objects he gathered—from the horse figurine to the long brown feather—were featured in his paintings. Plus, he names each painting and explains the symbolism of the objects. Thankfully this competition isn’t about knowledge. If it were, none of us would stand a chance to Chase.
The audience claps loudly for him—louder than they clapped for the rest of us. I bet they’re rooting for him. When everyone falls quiet, Dominic moves to the last contestant, Kevin. His voice explodes out of the microphone and echoes through the cavernous stone lobby. His collection is about pipe dreams—illusions—thus the big rusty pipe, the paper bouquet that I thought Maxine had taken, and the magnifying glass. I hate to admit that it all makes sense. I so wish it hadn’t.
After we’ve all defended our collections, we are dismissed until the evening show. Our assistants lead us back to the large staircase under dense waves of applause. My heart beats fast as I wonder how I did. I know that on TV, there’s a running commentary, but we are not privy to it. As we reach the first-floor landing, the applause stops and a commotion erupts. It’s followed by heavy footsteps on the stone stairs. Police officers dressed in plainclothes flash shiny badges as they jog up.
“Ivy Redd?” one of them barks.
The contestants and assistants part around me. I feel like I’m having that dream where I’m walking down Highway 31 in Kokomo, naked, while everyone is clothed, even the girls from the Hip-Hugger strip club.
A woman walks up to me. “I’m Detective Clancy. You need to come with us.”
My mouth goes as dry as a sunbaked cornhusk. “Wh-why?”
“We need to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“About your sister.”
“What about my sister?” This time, my tone is a bit snappier.
“Do you really want us to discuss this in front of the cameras?” She gestures to Jeb and his crew whose devices are aimed on us.
“Just tell me if she’s okay.”
“Depends what you mean by okay.”
“Physically?”
“Yes. Now, are you coming or do we have to cuff and drag you out of here?”
Although it’s painfully embarrassing, I follow her and pretend everyone is not staring at me. As I start down the stairs, Dominic arrives. His neck is bright red, as must be the rest of his face underneath his thick layer of foundation.
“What in God’s name is this about?” His usually suave voice is slightly shrill.
Detective Clancy sticks her hand on her very narrow hips. They’re like man hips. “Nothing that concerns you or your show, Mister Bacci.”
“With all due respect,” he says, “Ivy is part of my show, so it does concern me.”
“We have a few questions for your contestant regarding her sister’s murder case. We’ll have her back to you in no time.”
I’m praying that Dominic will tell her that she has no jurisdiction here, but that would create a messier scene, so I place my hand on Dominic’s forearm
and put on a brave face. “It’s okay, Mister Bacci. I’ll get this over with quickly, in time for the announcement tonight.” I turn to the detective. “I’ll be back by then, right?”
She nods.
I let my hand drop and follow her across the lobby where the audience parts around me like the Red Sea. People whisper, point, gasp. It’s just as shameful as the press conference. My heart is blasting against my ribcage, making my sea foam bodice vibrate. I pray no one can see it.
The early afternoon sun is blinding. I keep my eyes on it long enough to create a glare that erases the rest of the world around me. Blood gushes through my eardrums, dimming the ambient clamor. The detective mutters something, but I don’t hear her words. I doubt she’s talking to me anyway. She opens the door of an unmarked vehicle and waits for me to settle in the backseat before slamming it shut and sinking into the front seat.
“Fucking move, people,” yells the young guy with silver hair, slapping the steering wheel. He starts nosing the car through the crowd. Surprisingly, he doesn’t roll anyone over. “I don’t get this show,” he adds, spinning the wheel so abruptly that I’m thrown against the door.
I gather the soft hem of my dress in my fingers and roll the material between my calloused thumb and forefinger. The softness reminds me of the rolls of cloth in Mom’s locked drawer. While they dated, my father would gift her rolls of exotic fabric after each of his trips. She’d kept them all intact, never once cutting a strip to use in her quilts. Every time I’d visit her in the psychiatric hospital she’d been relocated to last spring, she’d ask me if I’d kept my promise not to tell Aster about them. She was afraid my twin would trash them out of spite for her. I don’t think Aster would ever do such a thing, but what do I know? My sister’s mind works in mysterious ways.
The precinct is teeming with visitors and cops and ringing phones. Detective Clancy takes the lead once inside and guides me toward an elevator. We exit on a high floor and head down a hallway of closed doors. She knocks on the one emblazoned with the number two, and then she pushes through and points me to a chair. While I sit, the silver-haired detective comes in with a folder tucked underneath his arm. He closes the door behind him and they both take a seat across the desk from me.
“So,” Detective Clancy begins, clicking on a small device in the middle of the table. “This interview is being recorded. I’m Leah Clancy and this is my partner, Austin McEnvoy. Could you state your full name and date of birth?”
“Ivy Redd, born December 21st, 1996.”
“Thank you. May we call you Ivy?”
I shrug.
She tips her head to the recording device on the table.
“Yes,” I say.
“The date is August 25, 2016 and the time is 3:13 p.m. The interview is being conducted at the Midtown North Precinct in New York City. The purpose of your presence here today, Ivy, is to shed light on your involvement with the deceased mobster Troy Mann.”
“My involvement?”
Detective Clancy holds up her finger. “One of your neighbors saw Mister Mann leave your apartment on the morning of August 17th. Could you tell us what he came to see you about?”
On cue, Austin flips open the folder. There’s a picture of Troy and me standing by my open apartment door. I know exactly who took it: Mister Mancini, nosiest neighbor in all of Kokomo.
“He bought a quilt from me,” I say.
“We’ll give you a chance to explain yourself in a second, but first I’d like to state that this is an out-of-custody interview.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“Meaning you are not under arrest and you are free to leave anytime,” she says.
“Like now?”
Austin gives me a challenging look. “We wouldn’t advise you to leave now.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You are entitled to free and legal representation—”
“I don’t need a lawyer.”
“But you are entitled to one.”
“Great,” I say.
“You don’t have to confess to anything, but it will harm your defense if you willingly withhold or falsify information. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Okay. So, with that in mind, if you decide not to answer a question today and that question later comes up in court, and you decide to answer the question then, you may be found liable of aiding the commission of a crime.”
“I’m here of my own free will, am I not?” I snap.
Leah Clancy presses her pale lips together. They’re practically the same shade as the rest of her skin, a sharp contrast to her dark brown hair and eyes. “Ivy, who is the man in the picture?”
“Troy Mann.”
“So you knew him?” Austin asks, leaning back.
“Knew is a broad word.”
He taps the tip of his thick finger on the picture. “You’re talking with him.”
“Yeah. I am, but I didn’t know him. He discovered me through the feature the Masterpiecers—”
“The Masterpiecers is the reality TV show Ivy is competing on,” Leah states for the digital recorder. “Go on.”
“He saw me on TV and tracked me down to purchase one of my quilts.”
“Could you describe the quilt he purchased?”
“Why is that relevant?” I ask.
“Because we didn’t find the quilt,” Detective Clancy says.
“Maybe he sold it to someone else.”
“Just describe it already,” Austin says.
I glare at him. “The quilt represented two people kissing.”
Thankfully, there’s no flare of recognition on either detective’s faces.
“How much did he pay for you for it?” Austin asks.
“That’s confidential.”
Detective Clancy eyes me in silence for a second, and then she says, “Then we’ll have to subpoena your bank records.”
“He gave me cash.”
“Did you declare the sale?” Austin asks.
“I didn’t have time to,” I lie. Hell, I’m not going to tell the police I had no intention of paying taxes on it.
Austin snorts. “Sure.”
“Ivy, did you know you were dealing with the mafia?” Detective Clancy asks.
“No.”
“Yeah, right.” Austin grunts and crosses his feet on the table.
“It’s true. I had no idea.”
“Your sister knew he was part of the mob. Said it in her testimony,” Austin remarks.
“We don’t tell each other everything.”
“I still have trouble believing you didn’t know who you were dealing with.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Detective McEnvoy?”
“Not yet,” he says.
Detective Clancy gives him a pointed stare. “Was your sister aware that you sold him a quilt?”
“No.”
“We received an anonymous tip that your sister had a blanket on her lap the night of the murder. Could that be the quilt which you sold to Mister Mann?”
“She keeps one of my quilts with her in the car because her heater doesn’t work.”
“It was August!” Austin says.
“She’s always cold.”
“The Honda was searched and it wasn’t in there,” Detective Clancy says.
“Then maybe she took it out.”
“You want to know what I think, Ivy?” Austin says. “I think you sold a quilt to Mister Mann, then once you found out he was part of the mob, you asked your sister to retrieve it so that you wouldn’t be associated with him.”
I try to suppress my increasing urge to punch him by folding my arms together. “I don’t know how you treat your siblings, Mister McEnvoy, but I actually respect my sister. I wouldn’t send her to do my dirty work. If I’d found out Mister Mann was part of the mafia, I would’ve attempted to contact him myself to cancel the transaction.”
“Attempted to contact him?” Austin asks, tipping one of his eyebrows up.
“It
’s not like he left me a business card.” I fix my gaze on the cigarette butt wedged in the sole of McEnvoy’s work boot.
“Now, about the hit and run.” Detective Clancy shuffles through the folder and takes out a picture of a dead body annotated in red pen. “Are you aware that according to the coroner, your sister hit Mister Mann, then proceeded to back up the car and roll over him?”
I swallow as a bitter taste fills my mouth. “No.”
“Does your sister have a history of violence?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not violent, but she’s not always…there.” I drop my voice on the last word, hoping it’s so faint the recorder won’t pick it up. If Aster ever hears what I think of her, it will break more than her heart. It will break her.
“What do you mean by that?” Detective Clancy asks.
“She suffers from mental illness,” I murmur.
“What sort of mental illness?”
“Schizophrenia.”
A wave of silence swells through the room. It hovers and finally comes crashing over me when McEnvoy asks, “Are you saying that your sister’s action on the night of August 17th could’ve been prompted by a bout of craziness?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying. Not at all.”
“But you just said that your sister’s not always,” Austin continues, “what was the word you used? Oh, yes, there.”
“He threatened her.”
“No kidding. She tracked him all the way to where he was staying,” he counters.
“Because she was trying to be a good Samaritan.”
“Good Samaritans don’t crush people under their car tires.”
“He tried to strangle her. That must be in the police file. She had red marks on her neck.”
Austin shrugs. “Could’ve done it to herself.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are we done here? Because I have to get back to the show.” I make to get up.
“Whoa there, Ivy,” McEnvoy says, “you didn’t tell us where you were on the night of August 17th.”
“Where I was?”
“What my colleague is asking is how do we know you’re not the twin in the car?”
The blood drains from my face. “What?”
The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Page 15